


The Agent

by M_hys_a



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Betrayal, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/M, Fen'Harel is Plotting, Heavy on the drama, Implied Fade Tongue, Jealous Cullen, Jealous Dread Wolf, Please Note the Rating, Things Get Dark, Trespasser Spoilers, limited third person pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5142056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_hys_a/pseuds/M_hys_a
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An agent of Fen’Harel unwittingly stumbles into the middle of a broken promise, and she learns firsthand that there is much more between the Dread Wolf and the sad-eyed Deirdre Lavellan than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Promises

                The sun was setting over a stronghold in the mountains, bathing the figures gathered in the courtyard in a warm golden light. There had been a wedding earlier in the day, and people were celebrating.

                An elven woman that the people of the stronghold called the Inquisitor had organized the affair in honor of a young soldier and his bride, a bright-cheeked girl who served ale at the stronghold’s tavern. The Inquisitor had taken care of all of the arrangements, from the food to the decorations, and even the shimmering gown worn by the bride had been a product of the Inquisitor’s generosity. It was a beautiful service on a beautiful day, and the whole community seemed temporarily cast in an aura of peace and contentment.

                The woman they called the Inquisitor was watching the revelry, perched alone on the stone stairs leading to the main hall. She was seated nearly halfway to the top, as ever removed from the crowd. She was resting her head in her hand with a soft smile on her face, and the breeze stirred her hair. Unbeknownst to her, she was the object of attention of two men in the crowd below, both pressed against the stone wall opposite and both gazing up at her with an intensity that would have startled her, had she seen it. One of them was a square-jawed and golden-haired human, clad in bulky armor. The other was a sinewy elf, bald-headed and clothed in humble raiment. The human man seemed oblivious to everything that was happening around him, his focus entirely placed on the creature on the stone stairs above. The elf, on the other hand, was acutely aware of the other man’s presence, shifting his eyes occasionally from the woman above to the golden-haired man standing near him and scowling. After several minutes, another human man approached. He was dark-haired, mustachioed, and bare-armed despite the slight chill in the air. He stepped up beside the golden-haired human and began to speak, and the blue-eyed elf listened to their conversation, aware that they did not know that he was eavesdropping. In fact, neither of the humans even seemed to realize he was there.

                “You know, Cullen, instead of staring up at her like a lovesick hound, you _could_ go talk to her. Maybe even ask her to dance? She certainly enjoyed your dance at the Winter Palace. She goes beet-red any time I ask her about it.” The mustachioed man leaned against the wall with his arms folded, and he looked over at the other man with a cocked eyebrow. “ _Well?_ ”

                The golden-haired man grimaced. “Why, Dorian? What good would that do? She’s enjoying the moment alone. If the Inquisitor wanted to share my company, she would come and ask me for it. If she wanted to dance, she would ask me.”

                “Are you quite certain about that, Cullen? She hides it, but deep down Deirdre is _shy_. Haven’t you ever wondered if she’s heard all the rumors about you and all your lady friends around Skyhold and figured that her attention wouldn’t be welcome? Or, even more likely, that she’s afraid of tempting your ire by, _Maker forbid_ , distracting you from your work?” The golden-haired man scowled, glancing over at the mustachioed man with a frown.

                “Dorian, don’t be ridiculous. The Inquisitor doesn’t know anything about those _rumors_ ,” he said pointedly, and the other man laughed.

                “Are you – Cullen, do you seriously believe that? Of _course_ she knows. _Everyone_ knows.”

                The golden-haired man made a pained expression, and his eyes went back to the woman seated on the stone stairs, who by this time had leaned back and was staring at the sky. “I don’t believe you, Dorian. She’s never said anything about it. You two may tease me about being ‘the prince of Skyhold,’ but if Deirdre had any suspicions about my behavior with women, she would say so.” The dark-haired man was looking at him incredulously.

                “Of _course_ she’s never said anything about it, Cullen! Why would she? She’s your friend, and she cares about you. Deirdre may tease you, but it’s one thing to tease a friend about a rhetorical prince-hood and another thing entirely to call him out for being a womanizing wretch.” He smirked at the glare that the golden-haired man shot him, saying archly, “Not that I think that’s what you are, of course. I’m speaking rhetorically, you understand.”

                The golden-haired man pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, drawing in a breath. “Do you really think she knows, Dorian?” The dark-haired man gave an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes.

                “ _Yes_ , Cullen. I can assure you with the utmost certainty – she knows.”

                The golden-haired man let out a groan. “Maker’s _breath_ , I wonder what she thinks of me.”

                “You could _ask_ her! And honestly, I think you’re being a bit dramatic. Deirdre’s not a prude, trust me. I’ve seen the woman naked. She has some secrets of her own.” The golden-haired man shot him a look that was somewhere between alarm and desperate curiosity, and he opened his mouth to speak before closing it again and scowling. The dark-haired man laughed. “You are truly, truly hopeless,” he cried, shaking his head.

                “Alright Dorian, let’s have it your way. Say I were to approach the Inquisitor, ask if she would like to spend more time together, and tell her that I have feelings for her. What if the reason she hasn’t sought my attention is that she is already _in_ a relationship? Maybe she already _has_ a lover, we just don’t know it.”

                The dark-haired man shook his head again and cast his eyes upwards, as if in silent supplication to any gods that might be listening to save him from the golden-haired man’s stupidity. “Cullen, I am closer to Deirdre than anyone else in the Inquisition. If she had a lover in this gods-forsaken organization, _trust me_ – I would know it.”

                Unbeknownst to them, the elven man’s mouth had twitched at this statement, his eyebrows lifting in a smirk.

                “What if he’s not _in_ the Inquisition, Dorian? What if it’s someone from her life before? Someone who is waiting for her?”

                “You mean like that half-elf vagabond that stopped by Skyhold ages ago? Trust me, nothing was happening there. And besides, even if there _i_ _s_ a lover outside the Inquisition – who cares? He isn’t here now.” The golden-haired man looked scandalized.

                “Dorian, are you suggesting that I would have a relationship with the Inquisitor knowing she was committed to someone else?”

                The dark-haired man rolled his eyes. “All I am saying, _Commander_ , is that I find it hard to believe you’ve taken the time to ask every woman you’ve bedded around Skyhold whether or not there’s ‘someone else’.” The golden-haired man did not respond to this, simply cast his eyes downward and frowned. The dark-haired man grinned triumphantly. “I _knew_ it. Cullen, this _really_ doesn’t have to be difficult. You are a strapping, handsome ex-Templar and she’s a feisty Dalish vixen who can fade in and out of the shadows. You two would give Varric inspiration for _countless_ dirty stories.” The golden-haired man flushed.

                “Dorian, however much the thought of me and the Inquisitor being in a relationship might _entertain_ you, I would never force my attentions on her if she didn’t invite them. Trust me: if she were ever to approach me, I would fall at her feet in an instant and never look back. But I will _not_ risk ruining our friendship by crossing a line that she doesn’t want to cross. It’s not worth it.”

                “How do you know it’s not worth it, Cullen? You’ve never made love to her, so how can you say?”

                “ _Enough_ , Dorian. This conversation is over.”

                The dark-haired man let out a deep sigh and pushed himself away from the wall. “As you wish, _Commander_ ,” he said, and he moved to walk away when the other man gripped his arm. The dark-haired man glanced down at the hand gripping his arm and back at the other man’s face, cocking an eyebrow and smiling.

                “Yes, _Commander_? Can I help you?”

                “Promise me you won’t say anything to her. _Promise me_.”

                The dark-haired man stared at him for a moment before laughing. “What, you think _I’m_ going to tell her? Absolutely _not_ , Cullen. I’m not going to make this any easier for you. Deirdre spends quite literally every day of her life fighting physical and emotional battles with no relief whatsoever from the duties that have been hoisted on her. If _you’re_ enough of a fool to let her go through that without offering her the kind of comfort that only an able-bodied and _virile_ man can provide, then _I’m_ not going to be the one to open that door for you. You don’t deserve it, and you don’t deserve _her_.” He let out a sigh and turned to look at the woman seated on the stone stairs. The air had turned colder, and she had wrapped her arms around herself. She was trembling slightly against the chill. “I would do it myself if I could, but, well – you know.” The dark-haired man pulled his arm loose and strode away, calling farewell over his shoulder. The golden-haired man watched him go and, shaking his head, abruptly moved away from the wall and towards the woman seated on the stairs. The blue-eyed elf watched his movements with interest.

                When the golden-haired man reached the bottom of the stairs, the Inquisitor looked down at him and smiled. She scooted over on the stone step and, when the man reached the steps below her, she patted the empty space beside her. The golden-haired man offered her his cloak, which she accepted with a surprised but grateful smile, and then he sat down beside her. The woman wrapped herself in the massive cloak and her trembling soon ceased. The two of them shared what appeared to be an amiable conversation for around half an hour, until a soldier haltingly approached them and the golden-haired man bowed begrudgingly before following the soldier away. The blue-eyed elf waited until the golden-haired man was well out of sight before making his own way towards the woman. The Inquisitor raised her eyebrows when he approached.

                “Hello, Solas,” she said quietly, and the light in her eyes suggested that there was more to her greeting than the simple words she had spoken. The blue-eyed elf gave her a small smile.

                “Do you mind if I join you, Inquisitor?” he asked. She smiled and shook her head.

                “Of course not, Solas. Please, sit.”

                With that, the blue-eyed elf settled beside her, making sure to maintain several inches of distance between their bodies. If she noticed, she said nothing of it.

                “What did you think of the ceremony, Inquisitor?”

                She gave a soft smile. “I thought that it was lovely. They looked truly happy, and I'm glad that so many of Skyhold’s people were given the chance to celebrate together. I try so hard to make this stronghold feel less like a garrison to the people living here and more like a home. I hope that it is working.”

                “Josephine tells me that the bride’s dress is actually yours. Is that true?”

                The woman gave a mischievous smile. “Yes, it’s true. Well, it _was_ my dress. Some family of Orlesian nobles I apparently met at the Winter Palace sent me an entire trunk of ornate gowns, including a wedding dress, with a note that said ‘In case the lovely Inquisitor Lavellan should ever find herself in need of such attire.’ Not surprisingly, the gowns were all sized for a human.” She let out a bitter laugh. “Even when they seek to curry the Inquisition’s favor, these shemlen still find some way to insult me.”

                “You don't remember meeting the family who sent them?”

                She shook her head. “No, Solas, I do not. Most of the events of that night are a blur to me, to be honest. It certainly didn’t help that you had me sneaking off halfway through the night for a scandalous moonlight tryst in the living quarters,” she said with a flirtatious smile, and the blue-eyed elf gave a roguish smile in return.

                “My apologies, Inquisitor. I didn’t mean to distract you from your duties.”

                She laughed. “Pardon me, Solas, but I think that you most certainly _did_ seek to distract me from my duties.”

                “Well, you didn’t seem to mind it at the time.”

                She laughed and shook her head. “You’re right. I did not.” She turned her eyes back down to the crowd below. “Regardless, that family sent me the wedding dress, and I knew immediately what to do with it.”

                “Does all of this make you think longingly of your own wedding day, Inquisitor? Whenever that may be?”

                She glanced over at him with an amused look on her face. “ _My_ wedding? Don’t be ridiculous, Solas. I won’t be getting married. I’ve known that for a very long time.”

                “Why not, Inquisitor?”

                “Well, first and foremost, I would need someone to _have_ me. Who would I marry? The only person I could ever imagine marrying would be you, and we both know that _that_ isn’t going to happen.” Her tone was light and jesting, but her words brought a pained expression to the blue-eyed elf’s face. When she noticed, she frowned slightly, and looked away.

                “Are you saying that I am the sole impediment to your being happily married, Inquisitor?”

                The woman let out a breath. “No, Solas, of course not. Forgive me, I was only joking. I decided long ago that I would never marry, and the decision had nothing to do with you. It is because – it is because I do not think that I am fit for it. Before I met you, I never imagined meeting anyone that I would love so much that I would be willing to commit the rest of my life to them. And knowing what I know of what is between us – please, do not make that face, Solas. I’m not saying this to hurt you, I am only trying to explain. You are the only person I have ever cared so much for that I would be willing to take such a risk, and knowing that I cannot marry you, I know that I will simply never marry.”

                “Do you resent me for not giving you the opportunity to be a blushing bride on her wedding day?”

                The woman scoffed. “Solas, you know that I care nothing for those things. I am not some pampered shemlen girl who needs to feel that she is a princess for a day.”

                “And yet you sit above the crowd with a look on your face as though you are mourning the loss of something. Why, Inquisitor?”

                She sighed. “I… I suppose that, cynic though I am, I still can’t help but wish that I had someone in my life who made me willing to take that risk _and_ who was equally willing to take that risk on my behalf. I’m sorry, Solas, I understand that things can never be that way between us, but there it is all the same.”

                The blue-eyed elf said nothing, and silence settled between them for several minutes. At first, his face was marked with sadness, but slowly, as the moments passed, his expression changed. 

                “I could not bear it if you married another, _vhenan_ ,” he said finally, and the woman let out a small laugh.

                “Trust me, Solas, you have no reason to worry about that. If I cannot marry you, then I will never marry.”

                “Can you promise me that, Deirdre?” he turned to her, and she tilted her head, her expression hovering between amusement and confused uncertainty.

                “Can I promise you that I will never marry?” she echoed, and the blue-eyed elf nodded.

                “Yes, _vhenan_. Promise me that you will never marry another.”

                She raised her eyebrows and laughed, looking down at the hands poking out of the cloak she wore and spreading all ten ring-less fingers. She shook her head and spoke in an amused voice. “I don’t know how else to say this, but you _really_ have no reason to worry. It will never happen. But, if it makes you feel better: I promise you, Solas. If I cannot marry you, then I will never marry.”

                The blue-eyed elf watched the woman with a sad light in his eyes. He did not seem to share her amusement at the proclamation, but he seemed satisfied with the promise she had made. He turned his gaze back down to the crowd below. People were still dancing.

                “Would you like to dance with me, Solas?” she asked quietly, and the blue-eyed elf made a pained expression.

                “Inquisitor, you know that we can’t do that. It wouldn’t be…”

                “I know, I know, it wouldn’t be _appropriate_ ,” the woman finished his sentence with a wry smile. “If you weren’t so good in bed, Solas, I would hate you for saying that.” The blue-eyed elf’s expression darkened.

                “Deirdre, you are not being fair. I have always been honest with you about the kind of relationship that I can offer you. As I remember, you agreed to it willingly.”

                She looked down at her hands again and sighed deeply. “I know, Solas. You’re right, and I’m sorry.” She rose suddenly. “I need to go. I promised Dorian that I would meet him for dinner.” The blue-eyed elf looked up at her.

                “Are you angry with me, Inquisitor?”

                Her shoulders slumped. “No, Solas, I am not angry. I simply wish that things could be different.”

                He raised his hand as if to touch her, but lowered it again, seeming to think better of it. He sighed deeply. “As do I, _vhenan_.” She had begun to make her way up the stairs when he spoke again. “May I visit you in the Fade tonight, _vhenan_?”

               She turned back to him and gave him a devilish grin. “You know that that is an offer I could _never_ refuse you, Solas.” He smiled in return, but his tone was searching when he spoke again.

               “And you will remember your promise, _vhenan_?”

               She rolled her eyes in a manner reminiscent of the dark-haired man from earlier. “I assure you, Solas, you have no reason to worry. But _yes_ , I will remember my promise.”

               “Thank you, _vhenan_. Enjoy your dinner. I will find you in the Fade.”

               She gave him an inscrutable smile before turning away. “I know, Solas,” she called. “You always do.”

 


	2. The Assignment

                Sylaise had been Fen’Harel’s from the first. From the moment she left her clan, stripped herself of her identity, took on a false name, and set out in search of rumors about the one they called the Dread Wolf, she knew that she was placing her life at the mercy of forces greater than her. She had committed herself to him, body and soul, and when he told her on her twentieth name day that she was to become a spy in the Inquisition, she had poured herself into the charge.

                She had expected danger from the assignment. She had expected discomfort, pain, and the ever-present threat of being discovered. What she had not expected was that she would find herself growing to care for the one they called the Inquisitor, or that she would come to view the Inquisition not as her assignment but as her home.

                Fen’Harel had assigned her to the post only months before he himself left the Inquisition. At that time, he was still calling himself Solas and dressing in the clothes of a beggar. He had addressed her, along with three other agents, in the mountains outside of Skyhold. She had never seen the Dread Wolf before, and she tried to keep her knees from trembling. He gave the four elves their instructions, their roles, who they were to watch, what they were to watch for, and how to report it back to him without being seen. His voice was even, cool, and detached as he told them his plans. “I will leave the Inquisition following the Inquisitor’s battle with the one they call Corypheus,” he had said. “By that time, I will have acquired an object that is critical to my plans, and I will remove myself from the organization to move forward with my own aims. If the Inquisitor should…” He seemed unable to complete the thought. “If the Inquisitor does not return from the battle, you are to focus your attentions on whoever is selected as the next Inquisitor. I suspect it would be a human, as I do not believe that they would elevate another elf to the role. You must be prepared for that situation should it occur.”

                When the conversation ended, the four agents bowed nervously and turned to depart, but Sylaise paused. “My Lord Fen’Harel,” she said suddenly, bowing to him. “What if the Inquisitor becomes suspicious after you leave? What can I do to make sure that we do not come under scrutiny?”

                He regarded her levelly for several moments. “She _will_ be suspicious,” he said finally. “She is suspicious of nearly everyone, now. It is a consequence of her time as the Inquisitor. But in the end, she will not act upon her doubts unless you give her reason. Although she is exceptionally intelligent, and observant, her nature is to always expect the best of others before the worst.” He shifted slightly, looking away. “It is a weakness of hers.”

                In the two and a half years that she had known the Inquisitor, Sylaise had learned firsthand the truth of Fen’Harel’s words. The first time that she met the Inquisitor, the elven woman had accomplished the unthinkable by catching her off guard, finding her staring at the bookshelves in her living quarters instead of carrying out her duty to dust them. By that time, Fen’Harel had been gone for several months. Sylaise had seen very little of the Inquisitor during that time, and what little she knew she heard only secondhand from others. Even her role as one of the Inquisitor’s primary chambermaids had done her little good, as she found that the Inquisitor spent most of her nights in the tower housing the massive golden-haired Commander.

               “You are welcome to borrow one of those, if you’d like.” Sylaise had started at the voice, and then turned to find the older woman standing at the top of the staircase, smiling at her.

               “M- My Lady!” she breathed, bowing deeply and doing her best to seem like an appropriately horrified chambermaid caught slacking in her duties. “Please forgive me for my idleness. I should not have looked at the books.”               

               She heard the other woman’s footsteps approaching, but she did not glance up. “Please do not bow to me,” the Inquisitor said quietly. “It is bad enough when the shemlen do it. I cannot bear it from another elf.” Surprised, Sylaise had straightened slowly, and found the Inquisitor making her way to the bookshelf beside her.

               “What is your name?” the Inquisitor asked her.

               “My name is Sylaise,” she said quietly. The Inquisitor’s eyebrows lifted.

               “A powerful name,” the Inquisitor observed. “Are you a mage, Sylaise?”

               “I am, my Lady. I was a ‘rebel mage’ at the time you freed us in Redcliffe. You can’t know the suffering that you saved us from.”

               As Fen’Harel had predicted, the Inquisitor was visibly affected by the reply. “I… I am glad to hear it, Sylaise. I only wish that I had been able to spare more people from suffering a grim fate during that time.” She shook her head suddenly, and studied the spines for a moment before settling on one, which she pulled out crisply. She extended the book to Sylaise and smiled. “This is a fascinating book about ancient elvhen magic, Sylaise. It was given to me by… by someone who was very dear to me. I think he would be pleased to know that it is being shared with others.”

              Sylaise took the book, fighting to hide her shock. Somehow, the Inquisitor had managed to select the title that had most piqued her interest. “Thank you, my Lady,” she said softly. The Inquisitor smiled.

               “You are most welcome, Sylaise. And there are plenty more where that came from. Please, feel free to take any book that you like. It is a tragedy, really, that they should sit here gathering dust. The only other person who reads them is Dorian, but he has read these titles several times before.”

               “Dorian, my Lady?”

               The Inquisitor gave a small and affecting smile. “The moustache,” she said with a quirk of her eyebrows. “And the exposed arms.”

                In spite of herself, Sylaise found herself grinning. She knew exactly the man that she was speaking of.

               “ _Thank you, my Lady_ ,” she said, suddenly remembering herself. “I…I ought to be going, my Lady. I shouldn’t intrude upon your privacy any longer.” She turned to the staircase, and saw the Inquisitor’s shemlen lover making his way up the stairs two at a time. When he reached the top, his face broke into a grin at the sight of the Inquisitor. He hardly seemed to notice that Sylaise was there. Sylaise took the opportunity to slip past him and made her way down the staircase, trying to clear her head after the conversation with the oddly enchanting Inquisitor.

               After their first encounter, Sylaise found herself seeking the Inquisitor’s company more often. She ventured farther outside the realm of the Inquisitor’s quarters, realizing that the woman spent little time there. As a result, the borders of her world expanded throughout Skyhold, and she came to know the people who were living there. She would bump into the Inquisitor in the library, in the spymaster’s rookery, in the training yard, in the dining chamber, and in the meantime she found herself introduced to the Inquisition’s many unique personalities. In particular, she came to know a highly sarcastic young city elf, a blacksmith who teased her mercilessly for her ‘ridiculously pompous name’ and made her laugh so hard that her sides hurt. She had never known a city elf before. She had always heard that they were timid, sniveling creatures, beaten down by generations of abuse, but instead she found that the young man’s suffering had had the opposite effect. He was wiry, tough, and supremely sarcastic, and his cynical insights on the goings-on of Skyhold became her favorite part of the day. However, his sarcastic demeanor changed when she asked him how he came to join the Inquisition.

               “It was back in Haven,” he said quietly. “I was training as a blacksmith there, when Corypheus attacked. I was inside of a burning building that was collapsing around me. I was so weak from the smoke that I couldn’t escape. I would have died if the Inquisitor hadn’t come for me.” Sylaise felt her heart skip a beat at the thought of him suffering such an awful fate. “The… the Inquisitor saved you?” she asked, and her friend nodded. “She smashed a window and crawled inside to get to me. There was an elf apostate in the Inquisition at that time – he isn’t here, anymore – who found us after she had dragged me out into the snow. He used a healing spell to stop the bleeding and to wake her up, but I think she was in nearly as bad a shape as I was.” He let out a distant-sounding laugh. “And then, after that, she set out to face Corypheus head-on while Commander Cullen took us out through the mountain pass. We thought she was dead. It was the worst night of my life.” Sylaise stared at him, utterly mesmerized. She thought of the lie she had told the Inquisitor – that she was a rebel mage whose life had been spared at Redcliffe – and felt oddly guilty hearing the story of someone whose life truly was saved by the woman. “After that, we came to Skyhold, and I’ve been with the Inquisition ever since. And I’ll be here as long as they’ll have me. I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that I would die for that woman, or for Commander Cullen.” He pointed, suddenly, to the steps to the main hall, where the Inquisitor was making her way down arm-in-arm with her shemlen lover. The man leaned down to whisper something in her ear, and she laughed abruptly, giving him an incredulous look. The wind whipped the shemlen’s golden hair about his head, and the Inquisitor’s cloak swirled around her shoulders. In spite of herself, Sylaise could not help but admit that the two made an oddly pleasing pair.

              Sylaise struggled, at first, to understand the relationship between the Inquisitor and the Commander. She had been made to understand that he was a womanizer, and there seemed to be countless shemlen women around Skyhold who were all too happy to slip into an empty room and tell her in explicit detail about their trysts with the square-jawed human back when he was available. And yet, they lamented, that had all changed abruptly when the Inquisitor made the decision to invite him into her bed. The way they told it, the man had accepted her invitation, and he had not left it since. The women had hoped that, after the thrill of the first few months wore off, he would see fit to expand his horizons again. (“Not to break things off with the Inquisitor, of course, but simply to share his attentions with other women in the meantime.”) It had not happened.

              Sylaise had been raised to view relationships between humans and elves as disgusting – it was a crime punishable by exile in her clan, so it took her a long time to accept that the Inquisitor she had come to respect so deeply had taken a human lover. Granted, it was hard to ignore that the Commander’s love for her appeared to be both intense and genuine. She had watched the two of them together, watched how his eyes followed her with a combination of tenderness and protectiveness, and how she seemed blissfully at ease when she was around him. The happiness that they brought each other – the way that his eyes crinkled when he smiled at her and the way that her face lit up when she teased him – perhaps their love was not so detestable. The Inquisitor had suffered greatly during her time as a leader, and perhaps it was her right to seek comfort where it was offered. She was the protector of so many people, was it so disgusting that she had found a protector of her own?

              Sylaise had worked through many of these thoughts on her own, and she had nearly come to the conclusion that she supported the Inquisitor in her decision to take a human lover when she witnessed something that cemented the decision so utterly it was hard for her to imagine ever condemning it. It was very late, and after dawdling for too long outside the blacksmith’s forge that night, giggling with her city elf friend, Sylaise was hungry. She had stopped by the kitchens to eat before going to bed, and she was making her way through the dining chambers when she noticed that she was not alone. Without a sound, she moved into the shadows, her training as Fen’Harel’s agent suddenly snapping into action. However, she realized instantly that her defensiveness might have created an aura of suspicious behavior where there had been none before – this was not the first night that she had stayed out too late with her city elf friend, and she doubted that anyone would have chided her for it. On the contrary, the Inquisitor probably would have encouraged the behavior with a knowing smile and a wink. But if there had been no cause for suspicion before, she had created one by her skittishness, and her instant defensive maneuver had effectively trapped her. There was no easily accessible exit from where she was, and so she was forced to press herself deeper into the shadows and wait until the other creatures in the dining chamber left. She turned her attention to the other occupants of the chamber, and her heart thudded when she realized who it was. It was the Commander and the Inquisitor. They were alone.

              She was seated across from him, her shoulders hunched slightly. She looked tired. Sylaise was set too far back to hear the words that they spoke, but she could see their movements clearly. She watched as the Commander reached his arm across the table and caressed the Inquisitor’s jaw. She raised her eyes to meet his, and Sylaise was shocked by the depths of sadness reflected there. She knew that the Inquisitor had experienced a great deal of suffering, but this? Her eyes looked like they contained an eternity of heartbreak and sorrow. She found herself compelled to comfort the woman, and she was glad when the Commander rose from his chair, jumped lightly over the table, and came to rest on the chair beside the Inquisitor. He slid her body over onto his lap, wrapping one arm around her waist while the other lightly stroked her hair. The Inquisitor seemed to visibly relax at his touch, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. The Commander’s mouth was moving, and the Inquisitor was smiling slightly at his words, until he said something that made her sit up, suddenly, and turn her face towards his. At that, she gripped his face with both hands and drew him into a kiss, and Sylaise realized with a jolt what was happening. The Commander’s demeanor transformed instantly, and he raised his hands to grasp her face as well and kissed her with such force that it appeared he wanted to consume her. The Inquisitor lifted herself, suddenly, and swung a leg over the chair so that she was straddling him, and the Commander’s eyes glinted. Sylaise felt her mouth go dry. He worked his hands underneath the fitted tunic that she wore, and she watched with helpless fascination as he lifted the garment over her head and dropped it to the floor beside them. The Inquisitor was bare chested beneath the tunic, and the Commander’s mouth fell to her shoulder, biting and kissing his way to her neck as she leaned back with her eyes closed. She slid her hands under his tunic as well, pressing upwards until the Commander paused long enough to pull the garment over his head. His broad shoulders glowed in the candlelight, the muscles of his chest and arms rippling as he lifted the Inquisitor to rest on the table above him. Sylaise realized that it was absolutely imperative that she look away, that to do anything otherwise would be to follow a course from which there was no returning, and yet she found she could not avert her gaze. The Commander stood, and she watched as his hands worked to slide the Inquisitor’s leggings down over her hips while she fumbled with the laces of his own breeches, working to expose him. Sylaise gaped. She had been told that the Inquisitor was not beautiful, and it was true, but the sight of her flushed with desire and trembling in her lover’s arms made Sylaise understand why such a handsome human had fallen for her. She was breathtaking. When the Commander was freed from his trousers, Sylaise’s stomach clenched and she tried not to stare. So, the shemlen women’s stories were true, she thought. Thankfully, he was not exposed for long, as he had barely settled back into the chair behind him before the Inquisitor climbed on top of him, straddling him and sliding herself onto him with a deliberate, rhythmic slowness. Sylaise began to tremble when she saw the way they were looking at each other, staring deep into the other’s eyes as the Inquisitor lowered herself, bit by bit, until finally the Commander raised his hips and she let out a small cry. The Inquisitor closed her mouth abruptly, aware that she had to be quiet, but it had been enough. Sylaise had heard it. She felt dizzy as she watched them move, the Inquisitor grasping the back of her lover’s neck and the Commander’s hands gripping her hips as they rose and fell. They did not look away from each other for a moment, not even when the Commander’s entire body tensed and his face was overcome with his release. Their chests rose and fall, panting in time as the Commander wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her shoulder. They stayed that way for several moments, until the Inquisitor gently extricated herself and began to dress quickly. Slowly, and with a hint of sadness, the Commander stood and did the same, and once fully clothed he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. He said something to her that made her smile gently, and she lifted a hand to cup his face. After that, they left, and Sylaise was alone, trembling in the shadows.

             The next day, Sylaise went about her duties in a haze, still mesmerized by what she had seen. When she stepped outside and saw her city elf leaned over his forge, lit by flames and sweating from his exertion, she felt the hot and unmistakable tendrils of desire snake their way up towards her stomach. She made her way towards him until she heard a voice, speaking low and quiet so that no-one else could hear. She realized that it was one of Fen’Harel’s other agents. The agents rarely spoke to one another, to avoid inviting suspicion, and Sylaise realized with a chill what this likely meant. He was here. He wanted to meet with them. Her suspicion was confirmed when the agent slipped a piece of paper in her hand, which she slipped into her pocket as she turned away from her city elf and back into the main hall, looking for a private place to read it. The note contained only a time and a place, and after committing it to memory she held the paper in the palm of her hand and burned it, focusing her gaze on the paper until it curled up in flames. She had not seen the Dread Wolf in nearly six months. She took a deep breath. She had to be ready to face him.

            When the time came, Sylaise melted away from Skyhold and slipped outside the stone walls without being seen, making her way to the appointed meeting place. As expected, the Dread Wolf was already there, waiting with folded arms while she and the other agents approached. As usual, the group of agents was different from her previous meeting – Sylaise never had a full understanding of just how many agents Fen’Harel had planted in the Inquisition— and only one of them was familiar to her. It was a black-haired elf who simpered after the Dread Wolf and seemed to loathe Sylaise utterly, for reasons that she could not understand. The other three agents spoke before her, and when Sylaise delivered her report, it was brief and perfunctory, her spoken words interspersed with mental thoughts and images about what was _not_ appropriate to include in the report, like how the Commander sent fresh flowers to the Inquisitor’s quarters every day and how the Inquisitor sometimes stood in the painted rotunda for hours at a time without speaking. When she concluded, Fen’Harel nodded, and seemed ready to dismiss them when the black-haired elf spoke suddenly.

           “Is that _all_ you have to tell our Lord Fen’Harel, Sylaise?” her voice said cuttingly. “It seems to me that you would have much more to tell him, seeing that you’re her personal chamber maid.” Sylaise felt her eyes narrow.          

           “Our Lord Fen’Harel is not interested in the personal life of the Inquisitor,” she said coldly. “It would be a waste of his time to share such details.” However, a strange look had come over the Dread Wolf’s face, and Sylaise felt her stomach clench when he spoke.

           “Are you quite certain about that, agent?” he asked her smoothly. “Details about the Inquisitor’s personal life might be exactly the detail that we need to gain insight into her plans.” The black-haired elf smirked triumphantly, and Sylaise squirmed. Somehow, the idea of sharing those details felt like a betrayal of the woman that she had come, strangely, to see as her friend. Sharing cold and sterile details about overheard war-room bickering between the Inquisitor and her shemlen advisors seemed impersonal and insignificant compared to the monumental intimacy of her daily interactions with the people she cared for.

           “If that’s what you wish, my Lord Fen’Harel, I’ll be sure to observe and make note of such details from now on,” Sylaise said slowly. “At this point, I haven’t been paying attention to them, thinking that they were a distraction from my true purpose.”

           “She’s _lying_ ,” the black-haired agent cut in. “Ask her what she saw last night. Ask her what she saw that made her dream so loud that I could hear it across the Fade.” Sylaise clenched her fists.

           “I saw the Inquisitor and the Commander making love,” she said coldly. “That doesn’t seem like a relevant detail for anticipating the Inquisition’s next strategic move.”

          The black-haired elf shuddered. “I don’t know how you could have watched it, the Inquisitor thrashing around with that brute of a shemlen. It’s _disgusting_.”

          “The Commander is a good man, and he _loves her_ ,” Sylaise shot back, forgetting herself. “It is not a _crime_ for a woman to seek release with the man she loves.” She stiffened when she heard Fen’Harel speak.

         “‘ _With the man she loves’_?” he repeated. “Do you believe that the Inquisitor loves the shemlen commander, agent?” he asked. He was frowning deeply, and speaking with a tone that she had never heard before. Her heart raced as she realized what her impetuousness might cost her.

          “I… I do, my Lord Fen’Harel. I believe that she loves him deeply.”

          “Based on what?”

          “Based on the way she touches him, and the way she glows when he draws near.”

          The Dread Wolf was still frowning, and he turned suddenly so that his back was towards them. He did not speak for several moments.

          “Agent, I have decided to modify your assignment,” he said after some time. “Seeing that you have developed an… interest in the personal affairs of the Inquisitor, I ask that you provide me details on any developments that you observe.” Sylaise felt sick to her stomach. Whatever she had agreed to when she had joined the ranks of Fen’Harel, tracking the emotional highs and lows of a sad-eyed woman she had come to deeply respect was _not_ what she had expected. “By better understanding the Inquisitor’s emotional state, we will be better positioned to exploit her weaknesses,” he continued. “It would appear that, in this, your… fascination will be to the benefit of our aim.” He turned, at that, and gave a small smile. “You are dismissed.”

          The agents separated and dissolved away into the trees, but not before the black-haired elf shot a glare at Sylaise. Sylaise suspected that the other elf’s exposure of her secret had not gone the way she had planned – she certainly could not have imagined that it would result in the Dread Wolf giving Sylaise a special assignment. Sylaise took a deep breath. Despite her internal struggle with the idea of providing Fen’Harel with insights into the very intimate details of the Inquisitor’s personal life, she reminded herself of the vow she had taken to serve him. She had sworn to commit her life to furthering his cause, and she had no right to question his methods. She would be his tool. She could still enjoy the life that she had come to live amongst the Inquisition while funneling insights about the Inquisitor’s personal affairs to the Dread Wolf. Doing so would be fundamentally no different from what she had been doing all along, she told herself, and for a time, she believed it. For a year and a half, she believed it.

           It was a year and a half of happiness. Upon her return to Skyhold that night, she had made her way to the blacksmith’s forge, taken her city elf’s face in her hands, and kissed him the way that she had seen the Inquisitor kiss the Commander. After a moment of shocked surprise, he began to kiss her back, and from that moment on she had a lover of her own within the Inquisition. The other agents might have noticed, but they did not dare question her methods. Not after she had earned a special assignment from Fen’Harel. It was a year and a half of growing friendship with the Inquisitor, of watching her make her way through her life with all the grace and love of a humble queen who truly valued her people. It was a year and a half of passing along information that, while highly personal, came to seem harmless to her – the Inquisitor loved to sneak up on the Commander in his quarters and startle him into spilling ink across his desk while she laughed joyously, the Inquisitor and the Tevinter mage spent a lot of time together in the library, seemingly deep in thought, the Commander paced around like a caged animal whenever the Inquisitor was gone from Skyhold on one of her diplomatic trips – and, at times, Sylaise nearly forgot that she was in the Inquisition as an extension of the Dread Wolf’s power, not the Inquisitor’s.

          And so her life had continued for a year and a half, until the day her Lord revealed himself to the Inquisitor, and Deirdre Lavellan returned to Skyhold missing half of her left arm and looking more like a ghost than a woman. Sylaise had trembled at the sight of her – at the way the Commander’s skin paled as he rushed to greet her, and how she would not meet his eyes – and wondered what the Dread Wolf had said to the Inquisitor on the other side of that eluvian. Wondered what he had said, and watched as her small world seemed to collapse around her from the aftershock.

 

 


	3. Broken Vows

            In those first few days after Fen’Harel’s exposure, Sylaise truly wondered if everything was going to fall apart. The Inquisitor had disappeared, locking herself in her quarters after her arrival and showing her face to no-one. Her inner circle paced around as if lost in their own thoughts, their demeanors ranging from shocked bewilderment to seething anger. While the name Fen’Harel did not mean the same thing to them as it did to her – they saw Fen’Harel merely as a political opponent, not as an elven god incarnate – they all seemed affected by the revelation that the one they called Solas was not what he had seemed. But none of them were in a state anywhere near as embattled as the Commander, who stalked around Skyhold like a caged lion with his mouth in a grim line and a fire of anger in his eyes. He had been shut out of his lover’s quarters, and he wore the loss like a cloak of fury.

            On the morning of the second day of the Inquisitor’s isolation, Sylaise was making her way from the library down to the rotunda when she overheard voices emanating from the circular room below. Slowly and quietly, she continued her descent, and she was met with the sight of the Commander and three craftsmen holding buckets and metal tools.

            “I want these paintings removed immediately,” he said quietly, his voice dangerously even when compared to the glinting anger on his face. “I want the murals removed, and the walls painted to cover any sign that they were ever here.” The craftsmen looked shocked, but moved to begin the efforts when one of the Inquisitor’s scholars burst into the room, looking distressed.

            “Pardon my frankness, Commander Rutherford, but I must ask that you _cease and desist_ with this tyrannical outburst. These paintings are a _treasure_ of Skyhold, their style unlike anything else in this part of Thedas. You cannot simply _remove_ them.” The Commander glowered at him, his amber eyes narrowing.

            “On the contrary, Jenkins. I _can_ remove them, and I _will_ remove them, along with every other trace that that _creature_ ever lived within these walls.”

            The scholar’s eyes widened. “So what will you do next? Take to burning all of the Inquisitor’s books? The artifacts that he discovered and identified during his time here? Have you asked _her_ how she feels about all of this?”

            Sylaise had not imagined that the Commander could become any more tense than he already was, but she was shocked to see the set of his shoulders and the scowl that settled over his face at the scholar’s words. He turned to the craftsmen. “ _Remove them_ ,” he said firmly, in a voice that brokered no disagreement, and with a last glare at the scholar he stalked out of the room and into the main hall. Sylaise was shocked. _Fen’Harel_ had made the paintings in the rotunda? _Fen’Harel_ had given the Inquisitor her collection of books on elvhen magic? She had known that the Dread Wolf served as a political advisor during his time with the Inquisition, but Sylaise found herself wondering if there were other aspects of his time with the Inquisition that Fen’Harel had not seen fit to share with his agents.

            Things continued in this manner for another day and a half, with everyone in the Inquisition walking a thin line between bitterness, anger, and grief. The whole stronghold seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the Inquisitor to reveal herself again. Even Sylaise’s city elf was infuriated by the betrayal of the one they called Solas. “She _trusted_ him,” he cried disapprovingly, his eyes flashing. Sylaise felt her stomach sink. She had thought that all other elves would jump to give their loyalty to Fen’Harel as soon as his identity was made known. “I saw them together. They were _friends_ \- how could he do this to her?” Sylaise said nothing, finding herself oddly troubled by the question and the fact that she did not know the answer.

            Finally, the Inquisitor emerged from her quarters without a word and made her way to the tower where her lover was waiting. Her eyes, already laced with sadness before her encounter with the Dread Wolf, seemed to have taken on a new depth of sorrow, but her back was straight and her head was high. Later in the day, Sylaise was involved in the efforts to clean up the Commander’s quarters, which had been thrown into utter disarray – although by the Commander’s fury at his isolation or his passionate reunion with his lover, Sylaise could not be certain. Perhaps it had been both.

            After the Inquisitor returned to the world, the organization suddenly began to hum with activity. Plans were being made, but the Inquisitor and her advisors were far more secretive than they had been previously. Their only discussions were behind closed doors, with guards posted, and in voices so quiet that even Sylaise could not make them out. As Fen’Harel had planned, the majority of elves left the Inquisition after the Dread Wolf revealed himself, until only Sylaise, her city elf, and a handful of other elves remained.

            Fen’Harel had warned Sylaise that the Inquisitor might approach her with questions, and as a result she was ready for the questions when that day arrived. When asked whether or not she planned to stay with the Inquisition, Sylaise responded that she did plan to stay, saying that she was loyal to the Inquisitor and that, “In truth, my Lady, I have nowhere else to go.” The Inquisitor had surprised her when she smiled and said, “Good. I think that that will make one of our blacksmiths very, very happy.” At her look of confusion, the Inquisitor continued. “I am leaving Skyhold, Sylaise, and taking my advisors with me, along with a small number of my staff. The rest will stay on, here, and continue their lives in the protection of the stronghold. You have been a capable and much-beloved member of our family, and I have dearly enjoyed your company. If you are interested, I would like to extend an invitation for you to join us in Tevinter. A certain blacksmith will be coming, and I’m sure that he would be overjoyed if you joined us as well.” Sylaise flushed at her words – the kindness in them, the genuine affection, and the warm tone with which she referenced the blacksmith. When she spoke her words of reply, it felt oddly like a betrayal. “I would be proud to join you, Inquisitor,” she told her.

            Fen’Harel seemed pleased by the invitation, and there was a strange smile on his face as he listened to her report. “So they mean to go to Tevinter. They mean to attempt to hide from me. And with Dorian, she is guaranteed protection for herself and her people. Well done, Inquisitor.” Sylaise was silent, recognizing that the Dread Wolf was not addressing her. It was not until his eyes flashed back towards her that she stiffened. “We will have to be more careful in our communications while you are in Tevinter. Until we are able to arrange for an eluvian to be transported there, I will not be able to visit you physically. I will plant agents in the city to carry your reports, but you must exercise the utmost caution. You cannot afford to be exposed in that place.” Sylaise had nodded mutely, her stomach clenching at his words. For some reason, she had come to think that her journey to Tevinter would distance her from her commitment to the Dread Wolf, the logistical complications involved sparing her from the need to continue reporting on the Inquisitor’s every movement. Instead, she realized, it would make her an even more critical piece in the Dread Wolf’s plan. There was no escaping the vows she had made, not even in Tevinter.

            When they settled in the Imperium, Sylaise sent her reports dutifully. She was not privy to any of the Inquisitor’s strategic plans, as she and her advisors maintained as strict a level of secrecy in Tevinter as they had established in Skyhold after the encounter with Fen’Harel. As a result, Sylaise’s reports were focused entirely on the Inquisitor’s emotional state. She seemed to be feeling better. Her reunion with Dorian had been joyous, the two of them laughing and hugging each other and releasing an endless stream of jokes about how unthinkable it was that she would end up in _Tevinter_ , of all places. She was absolutely taken with the Mabari hound that the Commander had adopted, taking it for daily walks with the Commander and saving scraps from her dinner plate to share with it afterwards when she thought no-one was looking. She was adjusting to life without her left arm, learning to regain some of the grace and balance she had lost and training with a dagger instead of a bow. Slowly but surely, the Inquisitor began to live again, and Sylaise was overcome with relief as she watched it take place. When she heard rumors that the Commander planned to propose, she was overwhelmed with excitement. How would he do it? Would he surprise her? Her blacksmith told her reverently that the Commander had asked him to help with the ring, saying that the adornment would have more meaning for the Inquisitor if it was made by familiar hands instead of purchased from a jeweler. Nervously, Sylaise offered her input on the design, and she felt her heart swell with pride when the Commander nodded thoughtfully, agreeing with her suggestions.

            When the day of the proposal came, she and her city elf hung back in the shadows, along with countless others, watching breathlessly as the Inquisitor and the Commander left to take their hound for its daily walk. The Inquisitor had raised her eyebrows at the looks that others gave her, smiling suspiciously, but in the end she had not expected it. When the two returned to the manor, her face was flushed and lit with a smile, and the Commander beamed as though his heart would burst. At the sight of them, the crowd erupted in cheers, and the entire household began to celebrate. Sylaise could not remember a time she had ever been so happy. There was enough food to fill the bellies of an entire army, sweet wine and ale to drink, and rowdy music. Her city elf taught her dances she had never seen, and she taught some to him in turn, so that she was weak with laughter by the time an elven member of the staff approached her asking her to run into the city to purchase more wine. Her city elf had seemed concerned, but she had waved him off lightly, looking forward to the chance to unleash her happiness upon the unsuspecting citizens of Tevinter. She was drunk, and it was not until she had left the gated security of the manor that she realized her mistake.

            She had not even made it to the end of the street when a hand emerged from the shadows, catching her arm and pulling her into the darkness. “He is here, Sylaise. The Dread Wolf is here. Are you prepared to speak to him?” She nodded hazily, wondering if he could smell the wine on her breath. Without speaking, the agent led her to a gutter, lifting the grate and gesturing for her to slide down. She nodded at him, dizzily, and leaned over the dark hole in the ground. She had made it most of the way down when she felt her stomach lurch, and she heaved the contents of the evening’s meal on the side of the tunnel. When her feet hit the ground below, she collapsed.

            When she woke, she was in a richly furnished room. The only other person in the room was the agent from earlier, who gave her a leery look. “So, you finally woke up,” he observed, and Sylaise nodded miserably. How long had she been asleep? Was her city elf worried about her? “Well, if you’re quite ready, we can meet with Fen’Harel now. He has already been forced to spend much more time here than planned thanks to your _antics_.” Sylaise shuddered at the realization that she had unwittingly inconvenienced her Lord Fen’Harel, and she shakily followed the other agent down a dark hallway into another room where two other agents stood waiting. She did not recognize them. The Dread Wolf joined them moments afterward, asking that they deliver their reports. Sylaise did not speak, hoping that in the time it took the other agents to deliver their reports she could come up with a reasonable excuse for her behavior. She had been poisoned? She had been attacked? She had been… she had been…

            “I was drunk, my Lord Fen’Harel,” she said calmly. “I’m sorry for interfering with your plans, and for behaving so irresponsibly. There was a celebration in the Inquisition, and I thought that it was only proper for me to take part, given that the Inquisitor views me as her friend.”

             In truth, the Dread Wolf seemed utterly uninterested in her drunkenness, lifting a glass of water to his lips and turning to look out the window at the city below. His only concern was the Inquisitor. “And what was the cause of the celebration?”

             “Marriage, my Lord Fen’Harel. Commander Cullen proposed, and the Inquisitor accepted.”

             She jolted at the unexpected sound of the glass crashing to the floor below.

             “ _What did you say_?”

             Sylaise stiffened, shocked and terrified by his tone. “I – I said that there is to be a wedding, my Lord Fen’Harel. The Inquisitor has agreed to marry the Commander, and to become his bondmate. Or, his wife, as I believe the shemlen call it.” Sylaise stared as the Dread Wolf’s shoulders stiffened beneath the luxuriant fabric of his coat.

             “When is it supposed to happen?” he asked, without turning. Sylaise blanched.

             "I- I do not know, my Lord. The engagement only just happened today. They haven’t made any plans yet about the date.”

             “I want you to provide me with every detail about the wedding as soon as they become available to you,” he said quietly, his voice razor-edged. Sylaise nodded silently, feeling a flash of anger at his words. What right did this man have to involve himself in the Inquisitor’s wedding plans? What could he possibly gain from it? Originally, he had said that he wanted updates on the Inquisitor’s personal life to use as leverage against her, but nothing had ever come of those claims. He had never acted upon the updates that Sylaise gave him, and instead he seemed only to hoard the information like a collection of small but treacherously sharp daggers. Sylaise was dangerously close to trembling. _Why couldn’t he just leave the Inquisitor alone?_

             “As you wish, my Lord,” she said, bowing silently and thinking of the Inquisitor, who refused to let anyone bow to her. “I will deliver all information to you as soon as it becomes available to me.”

             Still, he did not turn. “Good,” he said distantly, as though he had barely heard her. “You are dismissed.”

             For the next several months, Sylaise was true to her word. She delivered every detail of the impending wedding to Fen’Harel, and with every report she fell deeper and deeper into despair. _What is he planning?_ She wondered. _Does he mean to attack during the wedding? To make a show of his power, and of the depths of his espionage?_ She was heartsick at the thought of being exposed as a traitor to the Inquisitor on her wedding day. She dreamed of breaking her vow to the Dread Wolf and throwing herself at the Inquisitor’s feet, confessing her guilt and begging for her forgiveness and her protection. However, she remained loyal in her waking life, her fear of the Dread Wolf ultimately eclipsing the love and adoration she had come to feel for the Inquisitor. Instead, she stayed silent, and dutiful, and when the Inquisitor sent for her on the morning of her wedding day, Sylaise suspected nothing more of the request than that the Inquisitor was nervous and needed someone to help her thread the small yellow flowers she had chosen through her hair. Instead, what she found when she entered the Inquisitor’s chambers was a woman ethereal in her gown and already crowned with wildflowers. She looked absolutely lovely, and Sylaise opened her mouth to say so when she realized that the Inquisitor had dark circles under her eyes, and that her face was wet from crying.

             “How long have you been working for him?” she asked, and Sylaise felt her knees go weak. Despite her inner turmoil, her voice was steady when she responded. _How had she found out?_

             “I don’t know what you mean, my Lady,” she said, looking confused. “I work for you. Who else would I be working for?” The sorrow in the Inquisitor’s gaze nearly brought tears to her eyes, and she lost her resolve when the woman finally spoke.

             “You know of whom I speak, Sylaise. Please - do not make me say his name.”

             At that, Sylaise began to tremble. “I – I…” suddenly, tears were streaming down her face in a deluge, and the Inquisitor was wiping them away gently with the bottom of her wedding gown. Sylaise nearly laughed at the awful, painful irony of it. _The Inquisitor_ was comforting _her_ over _her_ betrayal. “I am so _sorry_ , my Lady. I never meant for any of this to happen. I mean, I did, but – everything has changed. I have been so happy here. _You_ have made me happy. Please, do not make me leave. I want to stay with you.”

            The Inquisitor studied her, her eyes dark with sorrow, and drew her into an embrace. Wracked with sobs, Sylaise clung to her, drawing in ragged breaths until at last her heart stopped racing. When she had calmed down slightly, the Inquisitor stepped away, seating herself on the edge of her desk with her head in her hand.

            “I do not want to force you to leave, Sylaise, but you must understand that I cannot let you stay here. I will not punish you for what you have done, but I cannot let you stay.”

            “I – I will revoke my vows of loyalty to him!” she cried, wild with desperation. “I will pledge my allegiance to you, instead. I will tell you everything, even what I know of the identities of his other agents in the Inquisition and around Tevinter. _Please_ , my Lady, _please_ , I beg of you – _do not make me leave_.”

            “Sylaise, do not make those promises. The Dread Wolf will not look kindly on your betrayal. As much as it pains me, I feel that I cannot let you stay here in good conscience. If he comes for you, I am not sure I will be able to protect you.”

             “I can look after myself, my Lady. I am familiar with the Dread Wolf. I know his tricks. His reach is not so wide here, in Tevinter. If you will have me, I request only that you do not ask me to leave the security of the manor. If I am allowed to remain here, I will be fine.”

            The Inquisitor pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers, her eyes closed. “It is not your physical safety that I am worried about, Sylaise,” she said quietly. “It is your safety in the Fade. He… he knows how to find people, there.” Her voice had trembled as she spoke the last sentence.

            “I am a mage, my Lady,” she said quietly. “I can hold my own.” The Inquisitor turned her eyes to her.

            “Dorian has been studying the Fade for many years. He might be able to help us in this.” She paused. “I – I cannot make you any promises, Sylaise, but if you truly wish to stay, I do not have the heart to send you away.” At her words, the last of Sylaise’s energy left her, and she sank to her knees.

            “ _Thank you, my Lady,_ ” she murmured, and she realized that the Inquisitor had come to kneel beside her.

            “You are welcome, Sylaise,” she said quietly, threading her right arm around her waist and helping her to her feet. “We can talk about the details later, but I want you to know – you have a home here. You are always welcome.” Sylaise began to tremble, and the Inquisitor gave her a small smile. “Now, I think that that is quite enough crying for now. We need to pull ourselves together. We have a wedding to go to, after all.”

            The wedding was beautiful, made all the more so by the fact that, for the first time in years, Sylaise was free of the oppressive weight of a guilty conscience. For the first time in years, she felt free to be herself – to give loyalty to those she chose, to love those she chose, and, at last, to give the Inquisitor the privacy that she deserved. Before the wedding began, the Inquisition’s spymaster had seen to it that Fen’Harel’s remaining known agents were exiled, and scouts were dispatched to search for those hiding throughout the city. For a time, it seemed, she was truly free. But in the end, the Inquisitor had been correct in her fears. While she and the Commander were able to ensure protection in the living world, they were not able to extend their reach into the world of the Fade. Despite all of her studying, all of the time spent with Dorian practicing spells of protection, Sylaise realized that it was only a matter of time before the Dread Wolf found her. In spite of it all, she did not regret her decision. Her city elf was sick with worry, and insisted that he sit with her whenever she slept, as though his careful devotion might spare her from the punishment that she was due. But when the time came, she was ready.

             They found her in a nightmare, a memory from her childhood. In it, an aravel was burning, her baby brother caught inside. She fought against the flames, crying out in pain, until she found herself wrenched backwards and away from the aravel by two figures clothed in black garb and wearing the mask of a wolf. She felt a violent strike against her head, and fell into blackness.

           When she woke, she was kneeling between two figures in front of a large throne. She realized distantly that they were in the main hall of Skyhold – an alternate Skyhold, utterly vacant except for their figures in the main hall. A Skyhold with no Inquisition, and no Inquisitor – a Skyhold where Fen’Harel held sway, and where the Dread Wolf would pass his judgment. When she looked up, she saw that he was seated on the throne, staring at the door to the main courtyard. She fought to maintain her composure, refusing to be bowed by fear. When the silence was broken, it was not the Dread Wolf who spoke, but one of the figures standing beside her.

          “Agent, you stand accused of treason. You have been accused of revealing yourself to the Inquisitor, and of providing her with the identities of other Dread Wolf agents in Tevinter. What do you have to say for your crimes?”

          She did not respond to his question, and instead addressed the Dread Wolf. “My Lord Fen’Harel, why are you doing this to her? What has the Inquisitor done to you to make you hate her so?” The Dread Wolf did not respond, instead continuing to fixate on the door. He seemed to be waiting for something.

         “ _Silence, prisoner_! Do not address the Dread Wolf in that fashion!”

         The first voice spoke again, repeating the question: “What do you have to say for your crimes against our Lord Fen’Harel?” Sylaise’s gaze returned to the Dread Wolf, uncertain if she should continue. He seemed oblivious to the conversation happening before him.

         “She- she does not have to be your enemy, my Lord,” she said haltingly. “She is a good person – if you spoke to her, she would understand your intentions.” Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice ringing across the chamber.

        “ _Stop this._ ”

        Her entire body tensing with sudden panic, Sylaise turned towards the voice. _Not her,_ she thought, _anyone but her._

        But it _was_ her. It was the Inquisitor, clothed in a black cloak. She had slipped through the main doors, and her eyes were focused with deadly clarity on Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf shifted in his chair at the sound of her voice. Finally, he seemed cognizant of what was happening around him. In fact, he seemed to be having difficulty staying seated.

        “ _Release her_ , Fen’Harel. You have nothing to gain from this.”

        Sylaise could not understand what was happening – the look on the Dread Wolf’s face as he beheld the Inquisitor, or the way the Inquisitor was trembling despite her forceful words.

       “So, you found us, Inquisitor,” the Dread Wolf said suddenly. Sylaise was unnerved by his tone – it sounded like he had been expecting her all along. “Tell me, how have you learned to navigate the Fade without me?”

       “Dorian has been studying the Fade for many years now, Fen’Harel. Though he lacks your natural propensity for Fade magic, he is not a fool.” The Dread Wolf raised an eyebrow at her words, which made the Inquisitor’s face darken with anger. “As I remember, Fen’Harel, this is not the first time that you have underestimated the abilities of a Tevinter mage.”

       Sylaise realized with shock that the Inquisitor’s words seemed to pain Fen’Harel, who grimaced and looked away. “Well, you have succeeded in finding me, Inquisitor. What do you propose to do next?”

      “I propose to ask you to release this woman,” she said coldly. “She is yours no more.”

       At her words, Sylaise let out a strangled cry. “Don’t do this, Inquisitor! He’ll kill you! Please, leave me – it’s not worth it!” One of the masked captors raised a hand to Sylaise as if to strike her, but the Inquisitor broke his movement with a well-timed dagger to the leg. Her eyes glowed.

       “Such loyalty you inspire in people, Deirdre,” Fen’Harel said quietly. “It seems some things have not changed, even after all these years.”

       Sylaise could not see the injured elf’s face behind his mask, but she could feel the anger radiating from him. Her entire body was wracked with fear for the Inquisitor. _What was she doing here? Why had she come?_ Sylaise was crying, her nose running, but she forced herself to speak. “In- Inquisitor, please, get out while you can. It’s not worth it.”

       The Inquisitor placed her hand gently on Sylaise’s shoulder, as if to comfort her. “What do you mean to gain from this, Fen’Harel? Please, let her go.”

       Fen’Harel had his elbow on his knee, and he was pressing a fist into his forehead without speaking. Sylaise heard a note of desperation in the Inquisitor’s voice when she spoke again.

      “You told me once that you are not a monster, Fen’Harel,” she said quietly, “Here is a chance to prove it to me.” Her voice was trembling, laced with something well beyond anger or sadness. The Dread Wolf had his face averted, refusing to look at her. After several moments, she took a step towards him. “ _Solas_ , _please_.”

      At her movement towards the Dread Wolf, the injured elf reacted instantly, flaring his arm and lacing the Inquisitor’s body with a bolt of crippling magic. Sylaise realized that she was screaming, tears pouring from her eyes as she watched the Inquisitor’s body course with pain. Suddenly, the spell ceased, and the Inquisitor let out a gasp before falling to her knees. Fen’Harel had risen, his entire body stiff. There was death in his eyes.

      “ _How dare you strike her_?” he cried, striding towards the group. The Inquisitor, released from the spell, was panting, clasping her middle and leaning forward.

      “Solas,” she managed, but the Dread Wolf did not seem to hear her. His eyes were fixated on the masked elf that had cast the spell. The elf was frozen, bound by the power of the Dread Wolf’s magic.

      “ _Get out_ ,” he ordered. “ _All of you._ ” Sylaise raised herself to her feet shakily.

      “Please, my Lord Fen’Harel, show mercy on the Inquisitor,” she begged. “I would gladly die in her place.” But the Dread Wolf did not appear to hear her words. He was staring at the Inquisitor, and she was staring back. One of the masked elves had already fled, and the injured one limped to the door of the main hall as soon as he was released from the Dread Wolf’s magic. Soon, only the three of them remained.

       Slowly, shakily, the Inquisitor began to raise herself to her feet, and Sylaise watched as the Dread Wolf moved to help her. The Inquisitor drew back as if struck, shaking her head. The two of them regarded each other for several moments.

       “You used her to lure me here, didn’t you, Solas? You knew I would come for her. This time, you wanted _me_ to find _you_.”

       The Dread Wolf said nothing, his gaze still focused on her face.

       “That is a lovely ring, Inquisitor,” he said finally. Sylaise was wracked with confusion, and she felt her heart racing in terror for the Inquisitor. She opened her mouth to speak when the Inquisitor turned to her. There was a strange look in her eyes.

       “It is alright, Sylaise,” she said quietly. “You can go.”

       At her words, Sylaise choked back a sob, turning and making her way miserably to the entrance of the main hall. Once outside, she collapsed on the steps, her heart breaking at the thought of the punishment that Fen’Harel would bestow upon her beloved friend. The Inquisitor would die, and all because of _her_. How had things gone so horribly wrong? How had the Lord Fen’Harel that she had believed in so utterly been led so hopelessly astray that he came to view the Inquisitor – the kind, affectionate Inquisitor – as his enemy? _I can’t understand it_ , she sobbed, repeating the phrase like a mantra in her head until she truly considered the meaning of the words.

       Perhaps she _couldn’t_ understand it because she _didn’t_ understand it. She didn’t understand what there was between the Dread Wolf and the Inquisitor, and despite her years of service, she had never really understood it. Fen’Harel had spent several years by the Inquisitor’s side in the Inquisition, dressing as an apostate and calling himself Solas – what had he been to her, and she to him? Sylaise was always told that he had been an advisor to the Inquisitor, but what if it was more that? What if there was a reason that the Inquisitor never spoke of the one called Solas, but would spend hours of her days at Skyhold alone in the room with his paintings? What if there was a reason why the Inquisitor’s eyes were constantly veiled with sadness? What if there was a reason why the Dread Wolf had commanded Sylaise to send him information about the most minute details of the Inquisitor’s personal affairs? What if there was a reason why the only time the impenetrable Fen’Harel seemed to lose his focus was when the Inquisitor was involved? When the answer dawned upon her, she wanted to scream. He had been her ally, her advisor, her friend – but he had also been her _lover_. With that, his sudden departure from the Inquisition, his betrayal, his constant efforts to undermine everything that the Inquisitor worked for took on an entirely new and painful hue. _She still loves him_ , she realized with horror. _And he still loves her_. She thought of the Commander, the way that the Inquisitor seemed to bring all of the light into his world… as well as all of the darkness. How had this happened? How had such a treacherous web been woven between them? Why had it taken her so long to realize what was really happening? And why had the Inquisitor been willing to risk so much in an attempt to save _her_? Sylaise choked back a sob at the thought, and curled her body against the doors, trembling and crying and listening for any sound that might emanate from the other side. But all was silence for what seemed like an age, until at last she felt the wooden doors shudder as they were opened from the inside, and the Inquisitor emerged, alone. Sylaise scrambled to her feet, examining her to make sure that she was not hurt. Her lips were swollen and her hair disheveled, but there were no signs of bodily injury upon her. Her eyes were unnervingly bright.

       “Come, Sylaise,” she said softly, her voice sounding hollow and distant. “We are going home. Dorian is waiting not far from here. He can wake us from this dream.” She began making her way down the steps, but Sylaise found herself frozen and stunned.

        “Inquisitor,” she called softly, her voice wavering. “Sylaise – it’s not my real name.”

        The Inquisitor paused, and turned back to her. “I know,” she said. “I’ve always known.” She turned to advance, but again, Sylaise spoke, unable to bear the weight of her grief.

        “Inquisitor, what did you have to do to convince him to free me?” she asked. The Inquisitor froze, but this time she did not turn. Her hand was shaking, and Sylaise realized with a chill that her wedding ring was gone. “The Dread Wolf doesn’t offer anything without a price, my Lady.”

        There was a long pause before the Inquisitor spoke again, and when she did, her voice was quiet.

        “No, Sylaise. No he does not.”


End file.
